


The Casablanca Hour

by OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink



Series: Sullen AU [1]
Category: Fringe
Genre: M/M, Other, futureverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 04:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5192024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink/pseuds/OnWednesdaysWeStudyinPink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brandon Fayette survives the occupation. More than survives. He gets the opportunity of a life many would kill for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Casablanca Hour

Brandon checked his pocket watch one last time before placing it back in his waist coat. His suit was made from lighter material better suited for warmer climates and was cream-coloured, and his polo coat matched the felt fedora he had tucked under his left elbow; he was undoubtably the best dressed man here on the train platform and he could see the envious looks of Loyalist guards standing watch. There was a slight chill in the air and he pulled his scarf tighter around his neck, despite it still being noon on the east coast. December was almost two seconds late—

“You have been waiting,” someone announced behind him and Brandon smiled as he turned.

“Not long.” He kissed the strange being on the corner of his lips—the right side because that was what December preferred.

As expected, December’s lips slightly moved into a smile, but quickly returned to their usual neutral expression. December motioned for one of the train attendants to come to him and then gestured to the young man to pick up Brandon’s two suitcases. Brandon smile became smarmy as he covertly took in the sudden attention they were receiving on the platform. Interest companions were a dime a dozen now, but to see an Observer with an older man was certainly rare. A group of young Loyalist women serving out their time as interest companions stepped aside as he approached the private car only high ranking Loyalists could enter; they watched him curiously, trying to identify him and the mark on his cheek. Unlike the only other spouse to an Observer, Brandon had managed to maintain his anonymity and liked to keep it that way. 

December held out his hand to Brandon to assist him into the train; Brandon’s hand was still gloved and he slipped it into the strong hold of the Observer’s, stepping up into the car and not thinking about the slightly arthritic twinge in his right knee. 

“We will be in the fourth chamber,” December informed him as he walked ahead in the narrow passageway of the car.

Their luggage had already been loaded onto the train by Loyalist porters and Brandon removed his fedora, clutching it in front of him as he followed. The fourth chamber of the train car had been designed with an Observer’s tastes in mind, which meant spartan. Sterile white walls, a thin cushion on the surgical steel benches, a window made of glass that would tint under the electrical pulses an Observer could generate with their fingertips—Brandon found it hideous, and then brushed the thought aside as December almost paused, detecting Brandon’s negative thoughts. 

“It’s fine,” Brandon quickly assured the one he loved. “We don’t need a different chamber.”

December did not pursue the matter further as he sensed the truthfulness of the statement, though he did remove one of the seat cushions and stack it on the other so that Brandon had something a little thicker to sit on. The private chamber had become much warmer with the presence of December, whose body ran hot due to the amount of cerebral processing his mind handled at all hours of the day; Brandon loosened his scarf and handed it over to his spouse, unbuttoning the polo coat as well to have hung from the hooks by the door. December dutifully cared for the clothing as Brandon sat down, his attention at the window where he watched the people outside finish boarding the train. 

They were going on an overseas holiday for his fiftieth birthday, a luxury most Loyalists in the upper echelon of the Observer empire had the privilege to enjoy once a year; Brandon had the affluence to travel anywhere whenever he wanted, something he’d done in his early forties to stave off the boredom brought by the lack of job. He’d fallen in love with the city of Casablanca and had tried to visit it a few times during the year, just to get away from the bureaucracy of New York; four years ago December had purchased a riad there for them to stay in when they visited. The trip would take a few hours by train and as the large locomotive began to move slowly from the station, Brandon pulled out his music player and found the nuwave he’d been fairly reminiscent over the past few weeks. Their small chamber filled with the music and December turned his attention to a stack of newspapers that had been placed on a small shelf under the window. Brandon set the little music player on the shelf and selected a newspaper to read as well. 

A few hours passed and Brandon set down the newspaper he’d been reading over. Loyalist publications were so dry and heavy-handed with their propaganda that he could only stomach it for so long before his disgust became too much; the Ministry of Media was not shy in their pandering to the new societal standards of what the Observers expected for the world. He looked over to the window and in the reflection of the glass, he could see the tattoo under his right eye, one given to him years ago when December wanted to have him marked as untouchable during the beginning of the Observer occupation. His Loyalist mark was more of a ‘property of’ tag, than the virtue tattoos other Loyalists had. December’s. His fingers touched the skin of his cheek delicately and he smiled. 

December looked up from his newspaper. “You are thinking of me.”

“Always.”

Brandon reached out and squeezed the Observer’s hand. December acknowledged his hand and then returned his attention to his paper. Brandon smirked and looked out the window at the ocean. It was still very strange to travel across the Atlantic via a train, but there was such a futuristic appeal to it all. The sea was calm today, the waves rolling lazily beneath them. He most enjoyed when there was a storm outside and the ocean would churn and the clouds would fill the horizon. 

There was a small knock on their door and it opened to reveal a young woman in train uniform, carrying a covered tray. 

“This is a private box,” December stated to the young woman, meant as a warning for her to know her place.

Brandon tensed up, having not expected to have their privacy interrupted. 

She paused. “I’ve been asked to deliver this to you, sir. It’s from the dining car.”

December was obviously doing a search of her mind. “We did not request this.”

“Thank you,” Brandon said in polite dismissal, just wanting her gone.

The woman stole a glance at Brandon before setting the tray down on a fold out leaf on the wall, and then left.

“We did not request this,” December repeated to him once the door was shut and locked once more. 

“I know. We won’t touch it.”

While there was a high likelihood this was a merely a courteous gesture by the Loyalist staff in the dining car, there was always the possibility that it was an assassination attempt against December, against Brandon, or against them both. Spontaneity was a no longer a fun part of his life, but the constant threat of danger.

“Are you hungry?” December asked as Brandon felt him probing his mind.

“No, I’m fine. But I’ll probably be hungry—“

“When you reach the riad,” December finished in unison with him.

Brandon will never get tired of December knowing what he’s about to say and he smiled. “We’ll have something to eat then.”

December agreed and then went back to looking through the newspapers.

They arrived in Morocco not long after and remained on the train until they reached Casablanca. It was almost evening now and as they disembarked from the train to walk to their riad, they were trailed by a handful of young menwho’d been hired to look after the property and carry their bags for them.

Brandon settled his hands into his pockets, pausing as December purchased some sort of meat from a street vendor. December offered him the first bite and Brandon made a small noise of approval at the heavy spices that had been used. 

“I have had arrangements made for the riad. It shall be to your preference,” December said while Brandon chewed and looked at the tall buildings built in labyrinth-like street ways.

“Oh? And what arrangements are those?” 

“Camellias have been placed in the riad. It will please you. They are your favourite. They have been cultivated in the Ministry of Science for you.”

Brandon smiled. “You know me best.”

“Of course. You belong to me. Who else could possibly know you the way I do?”

And the answer was no one, save for Brandon himself. 

Their walk from the station to their riad was about fifteen minutes, both so the young men carrying the luggage could keep up and because of Brandon’s knee. The door was reinforced with a magnetic seal and the old wood placed on front as a façade; it required a special key to open or in December’s case, the right electrical pulses.  

The riad was centuries old and owned by December on his behalf, as he was not allowed to own property anymore, but the interior touches were all his. Brandon had a taste for abstract art and sculptures that December didn’t understand, but tolerated. The furniture was all local, nothing made of cold steel and synthetic cushions, and there was ornamentation on the wood and plaster work throughout the building. Without exhausting the desert metaphor, their little vacation home was a welcome oasis from the muted sensibility of his life in New York.  

True to December’s word, there were huge vases filled with branches of white camellias placed carefully around the courtyard and on the various open floors of the home; as Brandon removed his hat and stared up towards the open sky at the top of the riad, he imagined the young men who’d brought their luggage in had never seen living flowers before, that they hated Brandon for the obscene display of power and wealth, that they stole blossoms to take home with them and give to their families. He sighed and pushed the thoughts away. The twilight above him was so beautiful: riads were constructed with an opening in the ceiling to allow the air in the building to circulate and remain cool, which meant the sight of the sky was always available to him here.

December came to stand behind his left shoulder, carefully removing Brandon’s coat. “Someday the sun will be gone and all that will be left—“

“Is a permanently dark sky,” Brandon finished.

He thought it was a grim, but fascinating fact. December had once assured Brandon that he’d long dead by the time the sun was hidden behind the dark atmosphere the Observers were creating, that Brandon would never have to see the sky as December longed for. 

December took his coat away, leaving Brandon alone. When riads were first designed, a large part of the architectural concept was to allow women their privacy in their home and gardens. Brandon wished they could have a garden beyond the hermetically sealed closet in their apartment that housed the trio of cacti he’d acquired—plants gave off too much oxygen for December to live comfortably with them, and Brandon knew that the cut branches in their vacation home was risky enough to induce breathing problems later.  

The last of the young men left, having taken the luggage upstairs to their room, and Brandon was finally able to unwind as the heavy door sealed shut. In the centre of the riad’s small atrium was a soaking pool, tiled with small blue squares of ceramic, less than two feet deep. Water was precious now, an intoxicant to the Observers, and thusly a revered commodity, so the act of dipping his bare feet into the pool would sacrilegious and thusly not allowed. But Brandon did come to sit on the ground at the edge of the pool and look at the reflection of the sky above on the surface of the water. 

Brandon loved the silence here; while he’d always belong to the city, there were few reminders here of the way the world was shaping. He could almost pretend that everything was normal when he was in Morocco. December, always so solemn, stood silently by a supporting column and waited for Brandon’s attention, which he gave immediately. Sitting up a little straighter and allowing his mind to project the openness he only allowed his spouse, December approached and came to sit beside him, eyes unblinking and intent in the darkening riad; the Observer’s pupils had dilated to take in as much light as possible.

Brandon smiled and slid closer to his spouse, needing the physical closeness that he was never allowed to have while in public. December took Brandon’s hand in his, palm up, and then with his other hand, cupped water from the small pool and poured it slowly into Brandon’s palm. Brandon could tell December was watching his reaction to the enigmatic gesture and Brandon smoothed away his confusion, replacing it with with the satisfaction he felt being here in Casablanca. 

“Everything is to my preference. I am very happy, very pleased,” Brandon told him as he allowed the water to trickle from his palm back into the pool. 

Forever a Star Trek nerd, Brandon had decided long ago that showing affection to December as if he was Vulcan was possibly to the best way to do it. Maybe that was where his fetishisation of the Observers came from—finding a clinical and logical mind so attractive. His hand came up to December’s in the position that mind melds were supposed to work and December followed suit, their foreheads resting against one another’s. Brandon closed his eyes and allowed his mind to open, awaiting for the Observer to look within his thoughts. 

December took a moment, but closed his eyes as well and Brandon felt the immediate sync of their minds. The eye of a hurricane. Their mouthes met and the synesthesia was golden and cream, blooming and unfolding much in the way a flower’s petals opened in the light of the sun. Brandon could feel heightened awareness of the small gold sub-dermal implant in his bottom lip, of the ones in his hands and brought his free hand up to cup his spouse’s face. 

Brandon knew that December considered their relationship to be a malfunctioning of nature, something that had corrupted the link between his Tech and his brain, and if he hadn’t been so well versed in Observer culture, he might be insulted and hurt by such a suggestion. December could hardly be considered affectionate in human terms and that most of the gestures he made were only mimicking what Brandon did to ensure Brandon had his needs satisfied. But wasn’t that love? Doing something just to make the other person happy?

“You are my preference,” Brandon murmured against December’s lips 

“And you are _my_ preference,” December said in reply, his voice soft and low. 

Their minds still mingling, Brandon returned to kissing the other being and breathed in the faint perfume of the camellias. 

*****///*****

 


End file.
